Last Call in Boracay

Ch. 2 Pt. 13

The lights flicker like neurons misfiring.

"Ah, fuck!" My mask straps break and it falls to the floor.

Dull, thudding knocks on the front door. Everyone freezes, staring in silence. Herman snatches a resin snake lamp from the end table and wields it like a club and says, "Willkommen" in a friendly chirp.

Traci shrugs. "It's open!"

More knocking. I pick up my mask, then place it over my mouth while speedwalking over the handmade jute rug. A nod to Herman, who steps forward ready to brain whatever's outside. I fling the door wide open.

It's Jon, pale like he's seen his own ghost, staring shell-shocked straight ahead with a waterlogged cigarette clinging to his mouth. His arms are laden with grocery bags as he slouches into the room. "Bulalog Bay ..."

Herman smirks, then ogles Joy. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the murderer. Oh!"

She elbows him right in the floating rib.

I lean in. "What?"

Jon rambles. "There's a … transvestite kiteboarding ..."

Joy. "Jon."

Traci waves her arms. "Jonny. Jonny Boy."

"... In da middle of da typhoon …"

Herman quips. "Jon The Ripper. Oh!"

"... In Bulalog Bay ..."

Joy's piercing tone. "Jon!"

Jon's eyes titubate like a barn owl having a seizure in a hailstorm, then dumps his bags on the granite kitchen island and commences pulling out cases of Red Horse beer, cartons of Marlboros, and celery stalks. "Uh, it was a rough one, but I got all da survival stuff we need, 'cept for the .."

He glances over at the industrial-sized boxes of toilet paper on the coffee table. "... Bumwipe. Really? Da whole bloody world is comin' to an end and all any o' you can think 'bout is wiping your arses?"

Sheet lightning arcs around us, followed by God's thundering drum roll moaning in the background. The bungalow's power sags to sleep then strains back to life. When the lights come on Carrie Lee is standing right next to Traci, freaking her out. "Ahhhh! Where in bloody blazes have you been, eh?"

"Feeding needles to Drogoth. In the loo."

I can't help myself. "What?"

Carrie Lee pulls up her Kiwi Girl t-shirt, revealing an ornate dragon tattoo splayed on her stomach. "Me diabetes."

"Lovely." Jon uncaps a Red Horse beer bottle and heads towards the main bedroom. "G'night all."

"You're … ah ..." Traci's tone is curious. "... going in there?"

"Of course." Jon takes a slug of beer. "Why not?"

Her face is a mask of repugnance.

"Vell, I suppose if you've already killed her, why not sleep with her?" Herman starts drifting into Jon's orbit.

Joy pulls at Herman, trying to corral him. "Boobie!"

Boobie?

Herman lowers his gaze condescendingly at the shorter man. "It's all over the island, Jon. Sleeping pills, huh?"

Jon squares up, then scowls as he scans Herman toe to head. "Good God! Do ya' ever wear pants, man?"

Yikes. It was true. We've all gotten so used to Herman's cheetah thong with a sunburned belly flab attire it seemed normal.

"Enough!" Carrie Lee and Traci intercede, begging for peace as Joy and I tug on the two contestants in opposing directions. It's a mash-up of pushing, pulling, shoving, and inchoate screams before Jon breaks free from my grip. "And not dat ya' give a good shite, but I placed me lovely wife, God rest her soul, in the gardener's shack, so we all could have a good night's sleep."

Everyone sighs in relief, except Herman. "Fuck you!"

Jon laughs through hyena's teeth."You're welcome."

A bludgeoning knock. Thrice. The scuffle stops. We all tilt our gazes towards the front door. Silence.

It bursts open. A wretch of a golem, jutting rough hide bones slovenly dressed in a marl of putrescent green sloughing skin, shambles into the room on writhing footfalls. The baby's breath-thin clumps of hair, deathbed sunken cheeks, and bloody yellow pus-filled pus eyes obscure the semblance of the grotesque creature.

It's Hurl. He lurches forward, chancred skin, lacerated brain, and failing organs decaying with every strangulated heartbeat before our astonished eyes.

Nice six-pack abs, though.

His blistered mouth opens in a wheezing gasp, then he slumps to the ground, facefirst, ejecting putrid bile all over the handmade jute rug.

The lights go out.